Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Eighteenth Street
"Let go of my wrist," I said, keeping my voice low and level, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Dominic stared at my wrist, his thumb brushing—almost by reflex—over the delicate bones where my pulse thudded frantically. For a fraction of a second, his hard, granite expression cracked, revealing a deep, agonizing vulnerability that made my breath catch. Then, just as quickly, the mask slammed back down. He released me as if my skin burned him.
"Sit down, Ellie," he said, nodding to the empty leather booth across from him. His bodyguards stiffened, one of them taking a half-step forward. Dominic flicked a wrist, a silent command for them to stand down. "Just for five minutes. You owe me that much."
"I owe you nothing," I spat back, the fury finally breaking through the terror. The five years of eating instant ramen in the dark, of crying silently into my pillow so Lily wouldn't hear, of working double shifts until my feet bled—all of it boiled up behind my eyes. "You left a note on a cheap napkin on my bedside table. 'I have to go. Don't look for me. It's over.' That was it, Dominic! No explanation. No warning. Just gone into thin air the night before college applications were due!"
Dominic flinched. It was a microscopic reaction, but I caught it. A muscle feathered along his jawline.
"You think I wanted to leave?" His voice was a dangerous hiss, lean and tight. "You think waking up in a safehouse with a gun to my head and a choice to make—run or watch everyone you love slaughtered in front of you—was a picnic?"
"You could have told me!"
"To put a target on your back?" He slammed a fist softly against the table, the crystal glasses rattling. "My uncle sold our operation out to the Outfit. They were cleaning house. If I had stayed, or if I had taken you with me, you wouldn't have lived to see sunrise, let alone graduation. Running was the only way to keep you breathing."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. For years, I had built my resentment around the idea that he simply grew tired of me, that I was a high school romance he wanted to shed on his way to bigger things. The reality—that he had been sucked into the violent, bloody underworld of Chicago's mafia wars—was infinitely more terrifying.
"And five years?" I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "Not a single call? Not a single message? You left me alone at eighteen, pregnant, terrified, and completely shattered, and you expect me to just—what? Understand?"
Dominic froze.
The air in the booth seemed to drop ten degrees. His eyes widened slightly, the dark irises dilating as my words echoed in his brain.
Pregnant.
The word hung suspended between us like a ticking bomb.
Dominic stopped breathing. I watched the realization ripple across his face—from confusion to sudden, shattering comprehension, and finally to a horror so profound it drained every drop of color from his cheeks.
"What... what did you just say?" he asked, his voice cracking on the syllable.
Before I could answer, the bell above the kitchen door chimed, and Marco stepped out, holding a tray. "Hey, Ellie, table four needs—"
May you like
I snatched my service pad, backed away from the booth, and looked Dominic dead in the eye.
"My shift ends at eleven," I said coldly, my heart pounding in my throat. "Meet me in the alley behind the restaurant if you want answers. But don't you dare make a scene in here."
